Holmes-wrecker (repost)
by Letsgetnk3d
Summary: Sherlock meets his match in someone much closer to home than he originally expected. Beauty and innocence make being a public threat much easier. Sherlockxwatson watsonxoc


Sherlock fervently paced the creaking wooden floors, his green eyes searching an invisible map for information he couldn't seem to find. Something was different about this time though, as noted by John's expertly trained senses. This wasn't a cigarette craving, or the need for a more exacting case; this was...fear.

"Don't tell me you're constipated again," Watson jested, flipping aimlessly through yesterday's newspaper.

"No, you ignorant sod. Is everything a game to you?"

The words may have not been a shock coming from him, but the ice cold tone and clenched fists were definitely a new development. Nothing in the apartment seemed to be relaxed, not even the ever cool Mrs. Hudson, who sat in the kitchen baking dish after dish of shepard's pie. She got up to six before she flopped against the sofa in defeat.

"John, use your feeble brain for a moment." Sherlock whispered as he pressed two fingers to each of his temples.

"I will certainly try my hardest," Watson replied through pursed lips.

"What could possibly be worse than me?"

Not in the mood for any of Holmes's mind games, he listed the obvious: nuclear holocaust, famine, civil war, and of course, two Sherlocks had to be worse than one. John was surprised to see Sherlock's eyebrows raise quizzically.

"The smartest of the buffoons lives amongst us, Mrs. Hudson."

"Please tell me for the sake of my own sanity that you haven't cloned yourself."

Silence stiffened the air as Holmes prepared in his true fashion, an answer that made absolutely no sense: "Social integration."

"You've lost me, love. You boys take care of the brain work." Mrs. Hudson shuffled back to her spot in the dining room, making sure to indiscreetly tilt her neck back to hear how on earth anything Sherlock said turned into logic. As always, she was not disappointed.

"You see, I'm a great man. Mycroft is also a great man, but not nearly close to my level of excellence. There are things though, that seem to be somewhat pertinent to access of information what they call the easy way. Which, if I may add, is never any fun and would make work so tedious I wouldn't need to leave the confines of my bedroom. What happens when you splice the genetics of super genius and social competency and they work in perfect harmony to create an illustrious supernova of danger? Do you know what this means?" "Should we go to the emergency cellar?"

"No, Watson. Far worse. Clear the couch. My sister is in town."

Somehow, it was always John who got stuck doing things for Sherlock's exclusive family. He'd brought Molly along for company, only to realize her insistent babbling of the fling between her and his roommate got old after three plus hours. In all honesty, it wasn't clear to him why Sherlock had abandoned his relationship, minus the disdain for all things sentimental. Molly's angular face and wiry but filled in the right spot frame made for a nice view, and her eager to please attitude melded her straight into Sherlock's crevices. Luckily, John felt a tug on his sleeve from behind. Unlike her brothers, Valentasia stood short at just under five feet, given a couple extra inches by the wild curly tresses in a bun on her head.

"John Watson, I presume. Molly. Charmed. Now lets get out of this agonizing pit of an airport before John slits everyone's throat with the pocket knife in his coat from listening to what I'm sure was endless blather of superficial hopes and aspirations that are too far from Molly's grasp, but she still opts to believe in them."

"Just like Sher," Molly said with a chagrined smile.

As Watson turned to see what quick response would come from her mouth, he realized that Valentasia had already begun her descent to the awaiting taxi, not bothering to turn around as she yelled smugly: "Your nicknames aren't cute!"

John found himself enraptured in this tiny creature of pure fire. At twenty, she knew everything, giving her decades to make the world hers without lifting a finger. What little he had seen of her smile, while she put Molly in her place, was unmistakable impish and filled with charisma. She was almost a perfect cross of Sherlock and Mycroft in both personality and appearance, giving her an alienesque look complemented with a loose bohemian style. The cab ride was unnaturally quiet, at least for the elder two. Val, as she informed them to call her, fluttered her eyelashes every so often, but otherwise stayed fixated on something in the horizon. Watson, now free to think without distraction, began to question Sherlock. Sure, it must've been difficult growing up with three dominant personalities, but her arrival certainly didn't appear to be the impending Armageddon. He was positive she couldn't have been worse than the years he'd survived, between Afghanistan and Jim Moriarity's reign of terror.

Mrs. Hudson perched on the stoop of 221B Baker Street as they pulled up, her withered arms open and extended. Thrusting her two small bags at John and Molly, Val rushed to her, embracing her as if the old woman would turn to sand at any moment. It actually humanized Val, softening John and Molly enough to lug her belongings behind her.

"I've made your favorite, dearest." Mrs. Hudson chirruped, gesturing to the endless supply of shepard's pie scattered on tables and counters wherever the pans would fit.

"You old bat, you know I'll never be able to finish this in a week." The grin plastered across both faces, wrinkled and smooth, made it clear the strong electric bond the two shared.

"Now," Val continued, "take me to my spastic freak of a brother."

Sherlock faced the window when John entered, a slight tremor of surprise making him jump. Slowly, Holmes turned, only to heavily release a bated breath when he saw Watson. Clamping both hands down on his shoulders, Sherlock hummed a question, pausing after each word.

"You...let...her...out...of...your...sight?"

"Sherlock, she's a girl, not a mutant-"

"Nice to see you too, Nibbles. My trip went well. Love the decor," Val interrupted John and startled them both.

Watson grudgingly held back his laughter but mouthed "nibbles?" at Sherlock in utter disbelief. And in an iconic moment, Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire who divorced any emotion, blushed a faint pink. Maybe he was right after all; she really was capable of anything. It wasn't until the early morning hours that John finally got to hear the story that would account for the travesties that occurred that night. Sherlock's forehead grew damp as he wove his tale, as if the thoughts traumatized him into a trance.

Of course being the youngest in an elite family had already naturally selected Val for success, but it was the observant eye of a then fifteen year old Sherlock that he claims cracked her code. The spell her hypnotic personality cast detracted most from her remarkable intelligence. Placement tests taken at age seven placed her amongst the minds of peers over twice her age, and triple her size. This was nothing on the reputation of Sherlock, who had skipped grades three to eleven, allowing him to graduate at twelve. The very bane to someone of this caliber had to be one thing: being beaten at his own game. What puzzled him even more was her make up. Val was his half sister, sharing just a paternal link. The late Mrs. Holmes coined the matriarchal role of intellectual powerhouse of the family. This wasn't to say their father was a simpleton, but it was apparent he lagged behind in certain aspects. For seven years, Val grew up with her mother, coming to live with the family after she was orphaned by her only known parent's brutal murder. She had to have gotten her quick wit from elsewhere.

Watson helped Sherlock ponder his dilemma half-heartedly, trying to keep his eyelids from drooping shut. Staying up until day break listening to someone who could talk for days got exhausting to say the least. At least it explained why any one would be so preoccupied with Val's presence. She had the innate ability to make Sherlock feel love and compassion, it made sense that he would be agitated towards it. His status of impenetrable grandeur was shattered in seconds, and he couldn't afford to let it happen often. To be honest, John almost found it laughable.


End file.
